Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Realizing Edward had never actually answered his question, Nightfall pressed. "Are you well, Master?"

Prince Edward stood directly in front of Nightfall. He passed the waterskin. "Here, drink as much as you can. You lost a lot of blood before you got your hand bandaged. I’m afraid you lost a lot more when I pulled that piece of wood out of your leg."

Thirstier than ever before in his life, Nightfall took the waterskin and gulped down a swallow. His mouth had dried to the point where the water seemed to burn his throat, and it tasted thick and dirty. Still, his body craved liquids enough to overcome the discomfort. He drank for a long time.

Once he had his squire drinking, the prince addressed his question. "I’m fine, because of you. You saved my life, Sudian." He reached toward Nightfall’s shoulder.

Instinctively, Nightfall flinched away, spilling water down his chin.

Apparently attributing Nightfall’s caution to his recent injuries, Prince Edward returned his hand to his side and let the incident rest.

Nightfall felt the need to break the silence; but never having rescued another person from death before, he did not know what to say. To emphasize his own heroics seemed tasteless and unnecessary, but to downplay his accomplishment might belittle the prince’s life. Then, aware he had hesitated too long in consideration, he ran with his own confusion. "Of course, Master. It’s my job."

Edward mirrored Nightfall’s bewilderment. "It’s your job to die saving me?"

"If necessary." Nightfall sipped more slowly, the skin nearly emptied.

"Who told you that? My father?"

And his murdering bastard of a sorcerer, yes. Nightfall hesitated, weakness dulling his usually quick wit.

One of the horses snorted, flinging its tail in circles. A songbird flitted from a treetop, shaking free a shower of needles.

Edward did not wait for an answer. “I’ve had a long string of governesses, stewards, and guardians, not one of whom would have placed himself between me and an inchworm."

Nightfall put the waterskin aside, examining his bandages. Someone, presumably Edward, had replaced the hastily applied rag on his hand with a neatly wrapped and tied cloth. Another bandage wrapped his thigh, darkened by a patch of old blood. His fingers felt stiff and unresponsive. Fear nearly paralyzed him. Two of his personae, polio-stricken Frihiat and plow-injured Telwinar, had required him to feign being crippled; but the split-second timing of Nightfall’s escapes already strained his abilities to their limits. Without the use of a hand, he felt as clumsy as a half-grown adolescent, and his survival had depended too many times on his reflexes for him to believe he would last long one-handed.

Oblivious to Nightfall’s concerns, Edward continued on the same track. "You know, my father will pay you whether or not you risk yourself for me.”

The prince’s words pounded the last blow in a long string of annoyances and insults. Nightfall had always considered himself independent, yet the realization that he had lost the widespread and myriad contacts he had established through years of effort frustrated him. The oath-bond trembled within him, a mockery of the pains that ached through him because of its presence. And he might well lose the use of his hand. Though the least of his problems, Nightfall lashed out at the thing that had thrown him over the edge. He twisted his face into a parody of deep, emotional hurt, a raw-edged expression approaching tears. “Master," he said almost inaudibly. "Your father is paying me nothing.” Rising, Nightfall limped toward the fire and sat with his back to the prince, but not before he saw a wide-eyed look of sympathy and self-hatred form on the prince’s features.

Guilt tingled at the edges of Nightfall’s conscience. Unaccustomed to the emotion, he cast it aside; but the dismissal proved harder than he expected. For all the times he had dallied with men’s lives, he had less experience with manipulating emotions other than hatred and fear. The image of the prince’s face remained in his mind’s eye.

"Sudian, I’m sorry." Prince Edward drew up beside his squire, his familiar, commanding tone gone.

Nightfall said nothing. He stared into the fire, fixating on mourning the destruction of his information net. He felt more alone than he had since the day his mother died, though that loss had filled him with the same mixture of grief and guilt. Only the day before, he had prayed to the sisters of the sunrise to take his mother’s life; and, with the faith in magical thoughts that only a child could grasp, he held himself to blame as much as the client who had dealt the fatal blow. Grief and love had warred with shameful relief. He had cried, yet something deep within him had rejoiced, and that thing his mother would have called "the demon’s influence" had become the center of his existence. His remorseless killings and thefts had proved him as evil as he believed himself to be, delved him into a cycle that ended with Kelryn, then began again with her betrayal.

Prince Edward shifted closer, glancing about as if afraid to be caught talking poignant issues with a servant. “Sudian, I, of all people, shouldn’t have said that, I who also swore to champion a cause and hold it above life itself, I get so ill hearing people dream with their mouths instead of their hearts, listening to them talk about what should be done instead of acting to fix the problem. I’ve tried my best to act when the opportunity presented itself and to prod my father and brother to do the same." He lowered a hand to Nightfall’s shoulder, and this time the squire managed not to pull away. "Sudian, your loyalty is not just appreciated, it’s the most noble act I’ve ever seen. I guess I just couldn’t fathom that kind of dedication to me."

The prince’s grip felt warm and rock steady. Nightfall’s annoyance slipped away, replaced by an almost unsuppressible urge to laugh. His naive optimism is nearly as touching as it is amusing. Seizing the opportunity to test his earlier theory about King Rikard wanting his younger son dead, as well as to lock in Edward’s trust, Nightfall questioned while the prince’s guard was down. “But, Master, you’re so ideal. Surely, I’m not the first to see how much the world needs you. And your father must be proud of all you’ve championed.”

Prince Edward’s fingers flexed, indenting Nightfall’s sleeve. "My father is a good man, but affairs of court keep him too busy to help the downtrodden."

"A pity, Master." Nightfall’s pain had not dulled, but it had become familiar enough for him to think more clearly. He swerved with the prince’s verbal dodge, restoring proper theme to the conversation. "All the more reason why he must cherish your struggle for causes he has no time to handle."

Again, Edward’s grip tightened, gouging linen deeper into Nightfall’s flesh.

The persistent weight of the prince’s arm, as well as the tenseness of his hold, numbed Nightfall’s wounded hand. He appreciated the lessening of the agony, but it frightened him as well. Pain, he understood. The fuzzy tingle fluttering through his fingers unnerved him, reminding him of the possible permanence of this injury. Nerve damage healed so slowly he might die of old age before his hand functioned properly again.

Apparently realizing the intensity of his grasp had gone way beyond comforting, Edward released his hold and turned away. "One day," he said, so softly Nightfall suspected he spoke to himself rather than his squire. "One day, human suffering will take precedence over politics." He whirled suddenly, confidence fully restored. "Sudian, we need to talk about strategy."

The abrupt change in topic and manner left Nightfall momentarily speechless. Clearly, the conversation had closed, and no nudges or twists would divert it back this time. "Strategy, Master?" Suddenly, the fog that accompanied blood loss and pain lifted enough to reveal memory of the moments before Nightfall had lost consciousness in Nemix. "Are we being followed?" He sprang to his feet, forgetting his injured leg until it seemed to suck all the sensation from his body and channel it into jabbing agony. He winced, waiting for the pain to fade back to baseline, along with the ringing void that temporarily shrouded his mind again.